Carola Dunn (6 page)

“End of chapter,” said Miranda. “If you leave your hero in such a predicament, who will be able to resist reading on?”

“No hero, only me. A hero would doubtless have leapt from his horse, seized the leader, whipped the tomahawk from his belt, and held it at his throat until the others disarmed. I am an arrant coward, I assure you. I spread my empty hands and said, ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’“

Miranda burst out laughing. “Did you really?”

“I did. The other would make a better story, though, would it not?”

“I don’t believe so,” she said, reflecting. “Stay with the facts. Suppose you present the fictitious hero’s actions as a plan which flashed through your mind. Then when your readers find out what actually happened, they will laugh as I did. Some may not like it so well as pure adventure, but others will like it a great deal better.”

“You think so?”

“I am sure of it. Besides, the anticlimax seems to be your natural style and will therefore very likely prove easier to write. And when you have them laughing, you may explain to your new Indian friends why you are travelling through the forest, thus averting any need for a dull introduction,” Miranda added triumphantly.

“A splendid notion!”

“But that is for the next chapter.”

“Yes, ma’am. And I know just where to start now.” He turned to dip his pen. “Thank you, Miss Carmichael. Are you sure you’re not Thalia in disguise?”

He was already scribbling away, so Miranda did not feel called upon to answer. She slipped out silently and went to the housekeeper’s room to go over the domestic accounts with Mrs. Lowenstein, who fortunately had a better grasp of numbers than of the English language.

Miranda’s hatred of accounts stemmed from the years of keeping house for her father, who had never paid a bill until he was dunned. In fact, they had had the bailiffs in the house twice, and Mr. Carmichael had narrowly escaped debtor’s prison. Now, with plenty of funds available to settle accounts as soon as they were presented, she took pride in her neat columns of figures. Yet at the sight of a stack of bills the old anxieties still shook her.

Mr. Daviot’s insouciant attitude towards his empty pockets reminded her all too strongly of her late papa. If he actually completed his book and made his fortune, no doubt he would squander it in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.

At least it now seemed possible that he intended to make a serious effort to write down his adventures and observations. Miranda was glad to have been able to help him get started.

But what had he meant by asking whether she was Thalia in disguise?

Finished with the housekeeper, Miranda went in search of Lady Wiston. “Her ladyship’s upstairs in the green sitting room,” the footman on duty in the hall told her mournfully.

“Thank you. I am sorry you have to leave, Eustace.”

“So’m I, miss, right sorry, but it’s not like we wasn’t warned when we came. And her ladyship says we’ll always be welcome at her at-homes when we can get away.”

“Good. Well, I hope you find an excellent position.”

“Ta, miss. Mr. Twitchell says we won’t have no trouble after he’s had the training of us. Mr. Sagaranathu’s with her ladyship, miss,” he added as she nodded and turned away.

On her way up the circular stair, Miranda pondered the sad fate of the footmen. Arbitrary as it seemed, it made sense, as most of Lady Wiston’s actions did when considered in the right light. The young men had been taught a respectable trade and it was time for two others to be given the same chance. They were not expected to depart until they had found good posts elsewhere.

All the same Miranda was relieved that her ladyship did not treat her companions thus. Impossible to imagine ever finding another position equally enjoyable!

In spite of which, she could not help wishing for a home of her own, a husband and children. She knew her three predecessors had all left to be married, by odd coincidence to three of the late Admiral’s nephews. However, the only nephew left was Lord Snell. It was too much to hope for that a member of the nobility should stoop to marry a mere gentlewoman forced by straitened circumstances to work for her living.

Indeed, whenever he called upon his aunt-by-marriage during the spring Season, Lord Snell had scarce noticed Miranda’s existence. She bore him no ill will. She might not feel like a grey mouse any longer, but in the eyes of most of the Upper Crust, that was what a lady’s companion was, almost by definition.

Sighing, she pushed open the door of the sitting room.

It was a charming apartment, hung with apple-green silk and decorated in dark green, white, and buttercup yellow. But Miranda had no eyes for the furnishings. Sagaranathu stood with his back to the fireplace, gazing down. In the middle of the floor Lady Wiston lay, flat on her back with one leg in the air.

Decently clad in Cossack trousers, a red and grey pair, Miranda had time to note as she started forward. “Good gracious, ma’am, are you all right?”

“A little stiff, dear.” Her ladyship lowered the waving leg and foot shod in a beaded moccasin—a gift from her nephew—though she made no move to rise. “But Mr. Sagaranathu assures me that will pass if I practise faithfully every day. Indeed, it is one of the purposes of the exercises.”

“The benefits of yoga are physical as well as spiritual,” the Javanese agreed gravely.

“I have hired Mr. Sagaranathu to give me a daily lesson while he is in London. Will you not join me, dear?”

“I believe not, Lady Wiston,” Miranda said hastily, quailing at the thought of thus exposing her limbs. “Walking Mudge and shopping twice a week give me all the exercise I desire. I beg your pardon for interrupting.”

“No matter, dear. You were looking for me?”

“I just wanted to check these accounts with you, the milliner’s and the haberdasher’s, but they can wait. In fact, I shall take Mudge to the Park now, while the sun is shining. Is he in here?”

“Asleep on his cushion in the corner, as usual. Perhaps Peter would like to go with you. He must be accustomed to an active life.”

“I would not for the world distract him, Lady Wiston. He is busy writing.”

“He is?” In her excitement, Lady Wiston struggled to sit up. Sagaranathu gave her a hand. “I confess, I had serious doubts. I have wronged the dear boy, I fear. What splendid news!”

“Is it not? But one morning does not make a book,” Miranda warned. “It is to be hoped his diligence matches his good intentions.”

“Pray don’t be so fierce, Miranda! Give the boy the benefit of the doubt.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Not without difficulty, she succeeded in stopping herself pointing out that Mr. Daviot was no longer a boy. He was a man, and the time for making allowances was surely past. Still, he had made a good beginning, with her assistance. “Do you know who Thalia is, Lady Wiston?” she asked.

“Thalia?” said her ladyship with a dubious frown. “No. Why?”

“Mr. Daviot mentioned her.”

“He has a sweetheart? How delightful! Does she live in the country? I must invite her to stay.”

“From the way he spoke of her, I fancy she is not a sweetheart.” Or was that wishful thinking? No, of course not, she had no reason to hope he had not left behind a beloved when he went to America. “A figure from poetry, or mythology, perhaps?”

“Alack, my education was sadly lacking in the study of mythology as well as the use of the globes.”

“Mine also,” Miranda admitted. “The only female I recall is Venus, goddess of love, who was Cupid’s mama, I believe.”

“There was my namesake Artemis, of course, and Medusa, who turned people into snakes, or something of the sort. Not a desirable acquaintance. We shall have to ask Peter for an explanation.”

“Oh no, ma’am, pray do not trouble him.” She would prefer not to learn from his own lips that he had compared her to someone vaguely disreputable, like Venus, or downright unpleasant, like Medusa. Not that he had any cause for the latter, but she considered him quite capable of the former, however unjustifiable. “I daresay he has forgotten all about it.”

“Well, I believe Sir Bernard had a dictionary of Classical mythology. A number of Navy ships are named after obscure gods and goddesses and heroes, and he always liked to know who they were. No doubt the book is on a shelf in the study.”

“I shall consult it later, then, when Mr. Daviot is finished for the day. Now I’ll be off and leave you to your lesson. Can you spare me a comfit to lure Mudge from the room?”

Lady Wiston produced the necessary sweetmeat. Apologizing again to Sagaranathu for the interruption, Miranda bribed the pug from his repose and set off for Hyde Park.

* * * *

Her first chance to search for the dictionary was just before dinner that evening. After changing her gown, she slipped down to the study. The writing table was strewn with sheets of paper, some written all over, some with no more than a line or a paragraph. Sternly repressing the temptation to pry, Miranda crossed to the bookshelves.

The dictionary of mythology was tucked away among the volumes on navigation and naval regulations. No wonder she had never noticed it. She took it down and found the entry for Thalia.

Confusingly, there were three Thalias. Surely Mr. Daviot had not meant to compare her to a Nereid, attendant on the god of the sea? One of the Graces, perhaps. Beautiful, modest, decorous—very good so far–but oh dear, they were attendants on Aphrodite, who was the Greek version of Venus and no doubt equally immodest. Surely he did not equate his aunt with Aphrodite!

Before hunting down the third Thalia, Miranda looked up Artemis. Goddess of the hunt, of chaste maidens, and of the changeable moon—so Lady Wiston had an excuse for her whimsical nature! Miranda chuckled.

She turned back to Thalia: one of the nine Muses, who danced and sang to entertain the gods on Olympus. And Thalia was the patron of comedy. That must be it. When Peter Daviot made the comment, had she not just advised him to make his readers laugh?

She found she rather liked being compared to the merry muse.

Chapter 6

Lady Wiston looked up from her breakfast muffin as Miranda entered the dining room.

“I shall buy a horse,” she announced. “A saddle horse. A hack, as I believe they are called. Yes, dear, another cup of chocolate if you please. A hunter will hardly be required.”

Miranda, pouring chocolate, was glad to hear it. “You are going to take up riding?” she enquired.

“Alas, I cannot think it would be quite seemly at my age. No, for Peter. He is working far too hard.”

“Mr. Daviot has certainly kept his nose to the grindstone for several days now,” Miranda agreed, helping herself to eggs, a muffin, and a cup of tea. “Though he does join us every evening after dinner. Only last night you beat him handily at piquet.”

“I find the captain’s tricks amazingly simple,” said her ladyship proudly, adding with a guilty look, “Not that I should employ them were I to play for money! But Peter takes no air or exercise. He must go to Tattersall’s and buy a horse.”

“Would it not be more practical to hire a mount for him when he wishes to ride?”

“He might hesitate to ask. If it is waiting for him in the mews, he can simply go off whenever he chooses. Miranda, dear, do you think he would be affronted if I were to offer him a small allowance? There must be any number of odds and ends he would like to purchase, and a gentleman ought to be able to drop into a coffee house now and then, to meet other gentlemen.”

Since wheedling his way into the household, Mr. Daviot had been singularly slow to request further benefits of his fond aunt, Miranda had to admit. Only yesterday, the washerwoman had requested an interview with her to disclaim all responsibility if the gentleman’s shirts entrusted to her should disintegrate into rags. Mrs. Lowenstein had told her the obliging Dilly, though it was no duty of hers, washed one of his two neckcloths every night so that he always had a clean one. Even his two coats were both worn at the elbows and beginning to fray at the cuffs.

He made no complaint. Possibly he had insufficient effrontery...or perhaps he was biding his time.

Miranda had thought of drawing the parlous state of his wardrobe to Lady Wiston’s attention. She had decided it was hardly her place. However, now she was asked for her opinion on an allowance, the subject naturally followed.

“Doubtless Mr. Daviot would be very glad of a little money in his pocket,” she said. “He is not touchy, not at all quick to take offence, but to salve his pride you might suggest he may reimburse you once his fortune is made.”

“An excellent notion,” her ladyship approved.

“There is another matter.” Miranda hesitated. With any less amiable mistress, her suggestion would be rightly treated as a gross impertinence.

“Yes, dear?”

She ventured onward. “I daresay you have not noticed, but it has been drawn to my attention.... The laundrywoman, when she brought back the linen, mentioned.... The fact is, ma’am, Mr. Daviot’s wardrobe is sadly in need of replenishment. But perhaps you mean to make him an allowance sufficient to cover such expenses?” she added hastily.

“Dear me, no, I had not noticed any deficiency. Do you suppose I need spectacles, Miranda?” Lady Wiston anxiously enquired.

“I doubt it, ma’am,” Miranda reassured her. “I expect it is just that you are unaccustomed to judging people by the state of their clothes and so failed to pay any particular attention to Mr. Daviot’s shabbiness.”

“Shockingly remiss of me! But how kind in you, my dear, to concern yourself for his welfare. My nephew must not go about in rags, but I fancy it would be unwise simply to hand over sufficient funds, do not you?”

“I’m sure I cannot say, Lady Wiston!”

“A young man unused to such comparative wealth,” she mused, “might well fritter it away on trifles and be no better dressed at the end. No, he must have the tailor and hatter and haberdasher and glover and boot-maker send their bills directly to me. Pray tell him so.”

“Me! I mean, I?” Miranda cried in dismay.

“If you please,” her ladyship said firmly. “I shall find it difficult enough to offer him an allowance, without criticizing his clothes into the bargain.”